Moments in Time
by DracoMalfoy456
Summary: There are always moments in time. Moments that define who a person is. Moments that can make or break someone. Moments that condemn the damned, or absolve them. Moments that can save a life, or end it. Stanley Pines has no idea what to do when he finds himself in one such moment on a cold October night, atop a stone cold concrete bridge. Continuation of The Life of Pines.


Hey everyone!

So, I finally got around to writing one of the one shots I promised. Took me long enough, huh? Sorry; things got in the way. Plus, I had started a new story, a BillDip that has taken up a lot of my time. But I got the idea for this, and decided to write it. It's not what I originally had wanted to write, but I decided to go for it.

Just a warning; this story goes deeply into suicide. Like, really deep. So if that's something that you can't read, please skip this story. I don't want to make anyone upset or worse.

I feel I should also mention that I have never really been suicidal. Of all my problems, that was never something that I ever could do. Too afraid of death, and all that. So, if I get anything wrong, please forgive me.

Oh! And if you've not read Life of Pines, do not worry. This has no real connection to that story, other than the fact it takes place in the same universe (which is mostly the same as canon, just with more insight into Stanley's life). So yeah.

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 _Summary: There are always moments in time. Moments that define who a person is. Moments that can make or break someone. Moments that condemn the damned, or absolve them. Moments that can save a life, or end it._

 _Stanley Pines has no idea what to do when he finds himself in one such moment on a cold October night, atop a stone cold concrete bridge.  
_

 _Characters: Stanley Pines._

 _Tags:_ _Attempted Suicide, Mentions of Past Suicide Attempt, Depression, Homelessness, Hope in the Dark_

* * *

It had been weeks since he had last eaten properly. And his stomach was not letting him forget this fact.

Twenty five years old and starving, Stanley wandered around the empty city street, hands in his pockets as he thought through what he could do.

Well, his last attempt at money had fallen through; he was still limping somewhat from the 'roughing up' that last casino had given him. And he hadn't bothered with his traveling salesman gig in months, the products never selling enough to justify even the meager cost of production. The lotto never went in his favor and if he tried pit-pocketing while he was weak with hunger, he might accidentally mess up and get sent to jail. Again.

He groaned as he felt his stomach clench, howling with the gnawing sensation of hunger. Ugh, this was bad. He was going to have to try and steal from a convenience store again and hope the cameras didn't catch him this time. It was that, or else starve. And while he still wasn't that comfortable with thieving, it was better than dying out here, cold and alone.

It took him about a minute to locate the nearest convenience store- a small gas station in an unlit section of town- and as he wandered in, he wondered when life would get better. _If_ life would get better. It seemed that ever since that day his father had kicked him out, life had just gotten worse and worse. He had tried his hardest to make something of himself, but nothing ever worked. Maybe this was just what he would have to deal with in life, he thought miserably as he stealthily took an energy bar from the rack and hid it up his sleeve. He had been resigned to that ages ago, but it never really got easier to deal with. The stench of failure never seemed to go away. How could it, when he practically bathed in it?

It was as he was leaving the store, casually, that he heard the yelling of the store clerk, followed by the sound of a gun being fired. Seeing that his jig was up, Stanley hightailed it out of there, running as fast as his nutrient deprived, slightly bruised body would allow him. He could hear the blast of gunshots following him and he tried his hardest to go faster. It was after running for ten minutes straight that he finally stopped, feeling that he had gotten far enough away from the store. He then tried his hardest to catch his breath, his heart pounding as his body ached. He glared down at his gut, hating the fact that even though he was starving, he still had plenty of fat to spare, which was constantly slowing him down. It seemed that eating nothing but junk food whenever he had the chance was taking its toll.

Emptying his pockets and his sleeve, Stanley counted his bounty, groaning as he saw he had only three energy bars and two chocolate bars. He had noticed the store clerk eyeing him something fierce and knew he'd have to settle for the bare minimum, but this was sad. This wouldn't last him past the day.

Sighing, he opened up one of the 'power' bars and took a bite, grimacing at the artificial strawberry flavoring. Ugh, these things were disgusting. But he had no other choice. It was this, or starve.

As he munched, he thought about the past several months. It would be an understatement to say that life had been tough on him. He had been in and out of jail for months now and he always seemed to be down on his luck. His car had gotten impounded more times than he could count and he had to spend the majority of his scarce cash on getting it back from the impound lot. More often than not, he couldn't afford even a cruddy motel room, instead sleeping in the backseat of his car, or worse. Food was a rarity and a luxury that he never seemed to be able to afford, a fact his body refused to let him forget.

But he refused to give up. He was Stanley Pines; no matter what happened, that would always be true. And one thing Stanley Pines wasn't was a quitter. He'd fight as long and as hard as he had to so he could wind up on top. He would make his father see just how great he could be. He'd make them all rue the day they kicked him out onto the streets.

It was just a bit hard to believe that, sitting in a piss filled alleyway, munching on a foul tasting 'power' bar that wouldn't even come close to filling his stomach. He could feel the overpowering wave of hopelessness wash over him as he sat there. It was getting late and he didn't even know where his car was, having left it behind to escape the police a day or so earlier. It was humiliating to know that he'd probably have to spend the night outside, huddled up under a bridge or, if he was lucky, on a park bench. Like a bum.

It wasn't like it would be the first time. In fact, he had spent numerous days sleeping out in the open, usually when his car had been in the impound lot, or else in a place that he couldn't go to get it back for fear of getting axed. It still sucked. It was even more humiliating than having to steal from run-down convenience stores. It just proved that his dad had always been right about him. He really was a bum. He wondered what the old man would think about that. He grinned bitterly, knowing that he'd probably never get to find out. Not if things didn't start looking up soon.

Finishing his pitiful dinner, he stored the remaining power and chocolate bars, having eaten only three of the five bars he had, and set out to find a semi-warm place to sleep for the night. Winter was rolling in and he could feel it in his bones, the bitter chill that never seemed to go away, no matter where he was. Pulling his jacket closer to his body for some hope of warmth, he wandered the city streets and prayed to whatever was out there that he'd find someplace safe for the night. Getting his keys or pitiful wallet stolen would just put a cap on this delightful day.

To his, arguably terrible, luck, he found a decent looking bridge in a quiet park that was a good distance from any houses, meaning that he might be able to sleep in peace without the cops bugging him and he'd have protection from the elements. Settling down for the night, he tried his hardest to not scream, the frustration of this all eating him up. This wasn't how life was supposed to go. Nothing about this was fair.

But fair or not, it was his life. And as he drifted off to sleep that night, he couldn't help but wish that it wasn't. That it all would just stop.

But that was just wishful thinking, wasn't it?

~XoxoxoxoxoxoX~

Hours had passed, sleep restless and fitful, when Stanley jolted awake, eyes opening slowly into the blurred darkness around him.

He wasn't sure what had woken him at first, as he looked into the water of the river, mind waking somewhat from his far from peaceful slumber. He had always been a light sleeper as a young child, waking anytime… anytime a certain _person who will not be named_ had stirred. He had gotten better with age, but had never been able to fully curb that natural inclination to wake at the slightest sound. So, naturally, living on the streets meant he often was pulled from his rest, by a particularly loud horn, or a chilly breeze. He had learned ages ago to take his waking's with a grain of salt, that nine times out of ten it was nothing more than a raccoon scattering across the floor.

Sitting up with a grumble, Stanley looked around, scowl clear on his face. He could see that it was still late, the sky dark and the street lamps lit, with nobody in sight. A quick check at the old watch he had bought years before said that it was roughly three AM, way too early for him too wake. With a grumble of complaint, and a wince from the pain he felt in his back at sleeping on the cold ground, he laid back down, positive that what had woken him wasn't important. Perhaps it was the gurgling river he was sleeping beside; it was awfully loud, the rapids flowing sluggishly but surely. He was lucky the area of concrete he had found beneath the area of the bridge that resided on land was dry. Small miracles, huh?

It was right as he was about to drift off again that he heard it. The sound that had likely woken him in the first place. Opening his eyes, staring into the black water, he frowned, trying to place what it had been, for it hadn't sounded like a normal, nighttime sound. It had sounded like… sniffling? Was that it? Sniffling? Curious, he strained his ears, his body tensing as it responded to the fight or flight instinct flooding inside of him. After all, if it was a person, he was better off running or hiding from them, in case they wanted to hurt him.

It took a minute, ears strained and body tense, before he heard it again. Soft, like it was being stifled, but clearly there. He'd likely have a hard time placing what the sound was, had he not heard it enough during the times he had let despair fill him and allowed himself the luxury of breaking down. Someone was crying. Not loudly, clearly not wanting to make a fuss about it, but definitely crying.

Stanley stayed lying on the ground, heart freezing, for several minutes as he debated in his mind. He didn't know what to do. It was probably someone who had just been dumped, who had come out here for the peace and solitude. They likely weren't going to check under the bridge to harm him. Right? Right. As long as he kept quiet, they'd probably never even know he had been there, hearing their soft whimpers, which had gotten louder in the minutes he had been inwardly debating with himself and panicking.

But oh, how loud those sobs had become. Stanley could hear them, the minutes ticking by as he laid silently under the bridge, like a troll awaiting victims. He wanted to ignore them, to go back to sleep, but he wasn't sure he'd be able to. Light sleeper, and all. And they really sounded distressed… which was not his problem, not like he would be able to help them when he couldn't even help himself, but he couldn't help the curiosity that filled inside him. He always considered himself practical, his… _person who will not be named_ being the curious one, but he couldn't deny he had his own curious streak. After all, it was him who had wanted to explore the caves near their apartment.

He should go back to sleep. He knew that. Whoever was up there didn't know he was there; he could stay quiet and never risk himself. But… if he was quiet, maybe he could take a peak? Just to satisfy his curiosity (and the gnawing hole in his stomach that told him no rational person should be out so late, crying atop a bridge that overlooked a river). That was all. Make sure it wasn't going to be a problem for him, and slip quietly away. Easy peasy.

With a barely audible groan, Stanley rolled over and sat, pushing off the ground a second later to stand. This was stupid, he thought with a grumble as he crept out from under the bridge. Curse his curiosity, curse his mind, and curse that gnawing worry in his gut. He didn't know this person, whomever they were; why the hell did he feel _worry_ , of all things? He had thought he had killed his human decency years ago.

Well, regardless of how stupid it was, apparently he was doing it. Looking left and right, Stanley darted out from under the bridge, hoping no one saw him and reported him to the cops. Just what he'd need, another trip to the county jail. With careful feet, Stanley crept around the concrete hand rail/entrance to the bridge and peaked up, seeing if he could spot the person from his vantage point, his heart pounding. He shouldn't be doing this. This was ridiculous; it was likely just someone who had gotten dumped. At three in the morning. On a Wednesday. Stranger things had happened, right?

It was just his luck that, not only could he not see whomever it was, but the way the bridge was built it was clear that if he climbed onto it, the person would have the likelihood of seeing him. So, that meant he shouldn't climb, right? Clearly, fate was against him and any morbid curiosity he had. Which was why he was mentally cursing his feet as they led him not back to safety, but up, to the unknown. He just had to hope that he could pass it off as just being an early riser, not that he had been sleeping under this very bridge.

As he climbed, he kept up a steady mantra of 'this is stupid, turn around you moron, do you want to go back to jail?' in his mind, teeth clenching as his heart pounded. He knew his mind was right; of course he did, he was the one thinking it. But he had already come this far, almost halfway down the bridge. And his stubbornness wouldn't let him turn around, even though he logically knew he should.

And then he was there. Top of the bridge, overlooking a beautiful view of pitch darkness. And, taking a look to his right, he saw the person who was making all the noise. The person who had gotten even louder as he had climbed. The person who was standing atop the concrete handrail meant to keep people from toppling over.

Stanley was not ashamed to admit that his heart stopped, looking at the person- age and gender undetermined in the darkness- standing and staring into the waters below, crying harder than any person ever should. He knew that position, knew the meaning behind it.

He didn't know what to do. That wasn't an uncommon occurrence, something that had plagued him ever since he had been a child and he had seen his father dismiss his every attempt at standing out. He just stood there, frozen, staring at the person's back, wondering what he was supposed to do.

 _Turn around_ , a little voice in his head whispered. _This is not your problem. If you interfere, you will just make things worse_.

Worse how, he argued back. Worse than standing at the edge of a bridge, crying so loud it was a surprise no one else had heard it? And besides, how, on Earth, could he leave while knowing a person was considering… that they were standing on the edge of a bridge, clearly about to… how could he do that? How could he live with himself if he just _left_? He wasn't a good man, knew it from the fact he robbed from convenience stores and conned people out of their money. But he wasn't so cold hearted that he could look at a person, clearly… 'upset', and then walk away. He had come up here, knowing that this situation was a possibility; could he really turn around now?

No, he decided, watching as the person let out a broken, slightly muffled wail. He couldn't. Not if he wanted to live with himself in the morning.

The only question now, however, was how to announce his presence. He had gotten so good at sneaking over the past seven years that the person hadn't heard his approach. However, if he spoke and disturbed the silence, he might startle them and send them into taking a quick plunge they might not truly wish to take. Oh, this wasn't fun. He so wasn't the person for this job. Talking… 'upset' people down was not a specialty of his. He could feel his heart pounding again as he stared, heard that treacherous voice whispering in his head, telling him to go back and leave this person alone. But he couldn't. Not now. So, with a deep but inaudible breath, Stanley strode casually forward, doing his best to project confidence and ease, even though he felt like he was about to hyperventilate.

He walked up to the concrete barrier, slowly but casually, looking out at the water as he went. He could see the person in the corner of his eye, saw the exact moment they realized they weren't alone. Heard their soft gasp, saw them lurch forward, only to lean back at the very last second. Stanley had to let out a breath at that. With that false casualty, he leaned up against the barrier, pretending that his eyes weren't straying from the water to his now silent companion. At least now, from his vantage point, he could see the person was male. Young, if he was correct. Teenager, perhaps?

"Nice night, huh?" Stanley asked smoothly, pretending he had any idea of what he was doing, despite the fact he really didn't. Inwardly he was berating himself. Ah yes. 'Nice night.' Wonderful, Stanley. Truly, you were the smart brother all along, weren't you, he thought bitterly.

To his credit, it at least got a reaction from the person. From the corner of his eye, he watched the boy blink, a long, exaggerated thing that spoke of confusion. He couldn't really see the boy's face all too well, since he was so high up, but he could see the boy's eyes, illuminated by the dim street lamps. The sound of heavy breathing and soft sobs still filled the air, the boy unable to stop his crying that quickly.

"W-who are you?" A whispered voice asked, hoarse and scratchy, a telling sign of tears shed, "W-why a-are y-y-you here? Go away!" That same voice hissed a second later, hands clenching at his sides. Stanley stayed put, ignoring the voice that told him to follow those instructions. He didn't like that voice, much. Never had.

"Name's Stan. An' I'm here ta enjoy this lovely view." Stanley claimed evenly, glancing over to the kid with raised eyebrows. He was doing his best to portray a blasé air, not wanting to seem too invested in the kid, not wanting to scare him off. That was what you were supposed to do with an 'upset' person, right? Be calm, cool, collected? Don't let them smell your fear? Or was he thinking of lions... Well, regardless, he was trying to be strong. He only hoped it was working. He wasn't really in the mood to watch some kid plunge to his death, thanks. He tried to stop the way his heart clenched at that thought.

"Well, could you do it somewhere else? I'm kind of in the middle of something." The boy hissed again, his voice no longer shaking with sobs, though just as hoarse. Now the kid just sounded angry, frustrated, and… sad. Yeah, Stanley decided. He definitely sounded sad.

"Sorry, kid, no dice. This spots th' best ta see at, afta all." He drawled, turning purposely back to the pitch black nothing he could see. Though, perhaps that was because he wasn't wearing his glasses, which made everything blurry even in broad daylight. Maybe the view was actually quite nice, if he had been able to see it. He hoped so. Otherwise his words kind of made no sense. He heard the kid scoff, wavering back and forth on his high perch. Stanley tried not to hold his breath.

"Can't you come back tomorrow? I'm sure the view will be the same!" The kid exclaimed, hands clenching even more as he turned to face him. Stanley shrugged.

"Yeah, but it wouldn't be th' same as tonight's view. Changes by th' day, ya see." He said sagely, even though the words literally made no sense. It sounded like something some wise old man would say, though, so maybe it would work. He turned back to face the kid, able to see his face with slightly more clarity now that he was turned towards him. God, he looked young. What, fifteen, sixteen? Maybe even younger. What the hell was a kid that young doing standing on a bridge edge? Stanley stopped himself before that voice could inform him of all the possible reasons why, forcing his attention back on the kid. It wouldn't do to think of those things.

"No it doesn't. The view never changes; I pass here every day on my way to school. It's always the same." The boy claimed, a small scowl on his child-like face. So young, Stanley thought with sadness. He'd been that young, once. Before everything had happened.

"Yeah, but if ya look closely, ya'll see the changes. Or, ya know, somethin' like that." Was he even speaking English? He didn't know. He had to get away from this pseudo philosophical crap, get back to the matter on hand. Even if it was unpleasant to deal with. "So. I know why I'm here. Whatta 'bout you? Shouldn't a kid like you have, I dunno, a bedtime?" Okay, maybe not the best way to ask it, but it needed to be asked. And forgive him if he lacked tact; was always a problem of his, so sue him.

The boy stiffened, arms rigid at his sides as he turned his face away, swaying again as he did. Stanley bit his lip, body tensing in case he had to make a quick catch he wasn't sure he could make. But, luckily, the boy stayed where he was. Just swayed.

"None of your business." The kid spat, voice soft in the quiet night. Stanley tried his hardest not to sigh. Of course the kid was going to be difficult. Why not?

"Well, 's gotta be somethin'. What, your girlfriend break up wit' ya or somethin'? Get a bad grade on a test? What?"

Right. Maybe that was a bit _too_ insensitive, he thought with a slight wince when he saw the boy jolt, hands clenching even more. Oh, he was bad at this. That voice was right; he was just making things worse.

"Just go away! Or-or leave me alone. You wouldn't understand. _No one_ ever understands." Forceful words from such a youthful person, Stanley thought with little humor. It was with a sigh that he crossed his arms and leaned up against the railing, staring intently out into the blurred darkness. He could still see the kid from the corner of his eyes, though.

"Ya'd be surprised, kid, how well I might. Try me. Might make ya feel betta, who knows?" He spoke softly, as soft as he thought he could ever get. Still had a gruff edge, but he supposed that's what happened when a person spent seven years running, living alone on the streets.

"Why should I tell you? You'd just make fun of me! Plus, I d-don't even know you! So j-just g-go away!" The boy exclaimed again, voice loud in the quiet that surrounded them, cracks appearing mid-way through. Stanley gave him credit; it was a good question. One he didn't quite know the answer to, other than he could tell the kid wanted someone to listen to. He refused to think about why he knew that.

"True. Ya don't know me. But I'm still willin' ta listen, if ya want. An' I won't make funna you. Why would I? Got no reason ta, do I?" He claimed, hoping the boy wasn't counting his comments on girlfriends or bad grades as making fun. He could see how they could be taken that way, but he hoped… hoped that he wouldn't. He hadn't meant it that way, after all.

To his, for once, luck, the boy appeared to actually consider his words, head tilted in thought. There was a frown on his face, replacing the scowl that had been there before.

"I-I don't…" the boy started, voice trailing off as he looked back out at the same darkness Stanley was staring oh so intently into. Like the answer to life's questions would be waiting there, just beyond his grasp. "I-I don't know. Y-you could be a maniac, or-or something."

"All the more betta for ya ta go home and hide, isn't it? Yet still you're here, standing on the edge of a bridge. I'm no idiot, kid. I know what you're doin'. What I don't know, howeva, is why. Perhaps ya can enlighten me." He said, pushing off against the railing and turning to face the boy fully, figuring the jig was up. No point in beating around the bush any more, huh? Just go out, and say it. The boy froze, solid as ice before little tremors started running through his body.

"Y-you're wrong," he whispered, voice tremulous and weak. Stanley couldn't help but feel pity for him. "Y-you have no idea what I'm doing."

"Oh really?" Stanley questioned, looking purposely between the kid and the bridge. He had no idea if this was the right move, but he guessed he'd find out. Had no clue what else to do. "'Cause I think I do. But I dunno, why don't ya tell me why you're standing on this bridge at three AM, on a chilly day in October? Perhaps you're right. Perhaps I'm wrong."

A long pause sounded here. The silence was nearly overwhelming, the darkness intruding into Stanley's mind. It sure was cold that night, he thought as he wrapped his jacket closer around his frame. But nothing could block the chill that radiated from deep inside of him. Nothing ever could.

"I wasn't going to jump." The boy claimed forcefully, minutes later, turning to face him with defiant eyes. Stanley, who had been watching him closely, didn't start at the sudden noise. Instead, he nodded slowly, making sure the kid could see.

"No, 'course not." Not much else he could say, was there, he thought as he stared into the boy's eyes. He could see a small scowl rise on his lips as the kid turned away once again, movement's jerky.

"You don't believe me. What a shock. Go away, whoever you are. Leave me alone."

Well, this was going nowhere. Wow, it wasn't even funny how bad he was at this. He could feel a helplessness rise in him as he stared at the boy, so lost as to what to do. He couldn't leave now, he just couldn't. Couldn't live with the guilt of giving up. So he took another deep breath, and plunged on.

"Look, if you're truly not gonna jump, why don'tcha come down from there, huh? Get off the edge an' back onta solid ground." He paused for a second. "An' I told ya; my name's Stan." Didn't matter he hadn't gone by that name in months. He was always Stan. Stanley. Brother to…

The boy froze again, body stiff, before swaying once more. Forward, back. Forward, back. Stanley tracked the motion with his eyes, not daring to look away. God, please let him be doing the right thing. Please let this work out. This kid was so young, too young. He didn't deserve to be out here, cold and alone, wanting to die because of something that _wasn't his fault, God, it wasn't his fault, it wasn't-_

Anyway, Stanley hoped he was doing the right thing. For once in his miserable life.

"I-I don't… I don't…" Stanley waited, patience he hadn't known he had filling him as he watched the boy struggle for words, still swaying, still shaking. It felt like an eternity passed before words filled the air again. "No. I can't. I-I _can't_." Whispered words, shaky breath. Stanley let a breath out, slowly, carefully.

"Why not? Thought ya weren't gonna jump."

The kid let out another sob, leaning forward, looking like he was about to simply fall. Stanley took a step forward, towards the boy, raising a hand in case… just, just in case.

"I-I'm not. I just… I don't want to come down, okay? I-I don't h-have to explain m-myself to _you_." The kid snapped, breathing heavy, words shaking.

"Don't hafta. But ya could. An' I'll listen. Promise. Won't judge, won't laugh. Jus' listen." Please be the right words. He thought they would be. They were good words, solid words. Words any child who was lost needed. Words that helped.

The pause lasted a while, here. A silence so mighty Stanley nearly thought he had gone deaf descended, not even the trees daring to make a sound. It was a moment in time that would make or break them. A decision that needed to be made, that would decide the fate for the condemned. That could save a life, or end it. He wondered what the decision would be. Because if the kid said no… if he denied his hand of assistance… then Stanley wasn't sure what else he could do to convince this boy. He'd try; God, would he try. But if he said no…

"Okay."

A whisper so silent Stanley hadn't thought he heard it right, but it echoed in his mind. Soft, barely there, but there nonetheless. Stanley let out a shaky breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"I-I'll tell you. B-but don't interrupt, okay? Let me talk." The boy demanded, voice slightly stronger than before, but still as fragile as glass. Stanley simply nodded, lifting his hand up and miming locking a lock over his lips. A gesture he had done all the time as a child, with his…

The boy moved, then, shifting a bit as he stood, but still he did not descend from his perch. Stanley tried not to feel disappointment as listened as the kid began.

"Okay. So, when I was younger, I loved sports. It was… was _everything_ to me. Dad always told me to practice, to play. I enjoyed it, so I didn't complain." The boy paused, shifting again.

"When I went to high school, I joined the football team. Got in, freshman year. And it was great! I-I loved it! I was good at it, and everything. I didn't care about school, lessons were boring and why the hell did I need to know about triangles and dead poets from centuries ago? What good does that do me?" Another pause. A deep breath, shaky and unsteady. Stanley said nothing, though his mind was churning, wondering just what had gone wrong in this boy's life that he went from loving football, to standing out here, wanting a short plunge into the darkness beyond.

"Last year, though, I got hurt. Not career ending, just a twisted ankle. Ligaments got strained. Had to take it easy for a few weeks, y-you know how it is. And I did it! Took it easy, rested my leg, and it got better! It did!" The boy exclaimed, practically yelling into the dark night, hands shaking as he raised one to push the hair out of his eyes.

"But not better enough, apparently. Whenever I run, it hurts. Like a dull knife stabbing me. It hurts! S-so I run slower. I catch the ball and try to run to the end zone, and the other team catches me. L-last week I messed up so bad, I-I cost us the _game_. Coach said that he- that he was," the boy stopped, a small sob escaping him, "that he was considering cutting me from the team. Didn't want to, but if I kept messing up… if I didn't get better…

"Dad wasn't happy. Neither was mom. Yelled, wouldn't stop yelling. Said how I had better get better soon, or else I'd never get anywhere in life. Dad said he was ashamed to call me his son. Mom just shook her head, looking disappointed. I tried telling them I couldn't run! T-that it hurt too much! But they didn't care. T-they never cared, about me. And my sister, she just cares about boys and makeup, and whatever else thirteen year old girls like. She doesn't care about me _or_ football." The boy spat, words twisted and bitter. Stanley kept staring at him, watching him sway. Did he even know he was doing it, he wondered. Likely not. Unconscious desire. Safety, or death. Back and forth. Back and forth.

"And the worst thing is, my parents are right. W-without football, I'm nothing. It's all I am, all I'm good at. Take that away, and what am I? But I can't do it anymore! I just… I can't! I want to, but I can't. S-so what's the point, anymore? I… I'm _nothing_ now. Dad said it. What point do I have living if I have nothing to live _for_? And it's not like anyone'll care. All my friends hate me for losing the game, they said so. And dad hates me for not being better. And mom hates me for not being smarter. And… and Ella hates me for being a boy, and my teacher's hate me because I'm so stupid, and I just… I just… I want it to end! Okay?! I want it to end. Please. Just… just let it _end_."

Stanley felt his heart go out for the kid, who had started crying again. Really, he did. It sucked, and he understood the feeling of worthlessness. That the only thing that mattered about you was something ( _someone_ ) else, something ( _someone_ ) you couldn't do ( _or ever hope to be_ ) anymore ( _ever, you pathetic waste of a child_ ). So he got it. He did.

But it wasn't as bad as he had feared. It wasn't like another boy, miles and miles and miles away, years and years ago, another bridge, another time. This could be fixed, with words. Words. Useless words, but with the right meaning… maybe. Maybe.

"Kid… look, I get it. Wantin' it ta end. It hurts, doesn' it? But… are ya really gonna give up? Ya can't be any older than sixteen. Ya got a long life ahead a ya, are ya really gonna end it now? Things seem bad but… I dunno. They get betta, don't they? And I know, it hurts. Life's pissin' on ya and nothin's goin' right. But givin' up just means you're lettin' life win. And honestly, are ya really gonna let life beat ya? And don't say no one'll care. Someone'll _always_ care. Your friends, or your mother, or your father, or your sister. I guarantee that if ya jumped right now, it would kill them. The moment ya hit the water."

Well, that was sappy. Good thing Fo- the person who will not be named had forced him to read those self-help books for the mandatory Home Economics class they had to take in high school. Otherwise he'd of had no idea what to say there. The boy stiffened at his words, his frown deep as he looked him straight in the eyes.

"So what do I do instead? How can I… can I make things better?" The kid asked, desperate, eyes beseeching and begging. Stanley wished he knew what to say. God, why was he the one to do this? He wasn't good at things like this! He wasn't… God, he had barely talked himself off the ledge, with deciding to spite the world, what advice could he possibly give to this child? How could he, professional _screw_ - _up_ who spent more time _in_ jail than _out_ possibly help anyone? But he had to try. Always, endlessly, trying. He did his best; maybe just this once his best would be enough.

"I dunno what ta tell ya, kid. Other than… I dunno. Talk ta your folks. Explain how ya feel, like ya did ta me. Explain how it hurts, your leg and their words. Or, somethin'. Maybe go see a doctor? Maybe there's somethin' wrong wit' ya leg that can get fixed. An', worse comes ta worse, get a new dream. Find somethin' else you're good at, make it work. It may seem impossible, but it ain't. Trust me, kid. Ya'll find somethin'. Football doesn't hafta be it for you. Ya can be more than just a game."

God, his words felt false. Tasted bad in his mouth. They were nothing, how could they ever help anyone? Worthless. Pathetic. But he watched the boy, who looked… hopeful? Maybe?

"How?" The kid asked, words so silent, like fragile glass. Stanley stared, wondering the exact same thing.

"I don't think I'm the person ta answer that, kid. But I do know one thing. You jump off this bridge tonight? You'll never find out. Nothin' good ever came from the bottom of a river, nothin' good ever came from a needless death. Things may be bad, but nothin' can't be fixed with time an' effort. So… chin up, okay?"

Oh, those words tasted worse. It was ironic, he thought almost hysterically, that he was the one saying them. Worthless words, meaningless words. Empty promises an eighteen year old boy had made himself while lost and alone, the crushing weight of what he had lost consuming him. And yet, seven years later, still that boy was nothing. Less than nothing. A liar, a thief, a criminal. Nothing good ever came from the bottom of a river? Maybe he should have found out, all those years ago.

But the kid looked like he heard them. Like he understood them. A gleam in his eye, like a light had been shined inside of them. Perhaps it was the words, so meaningless even he had trouble believing them. Or maybe the kid just wanted an excuse to live, hadn't want things to end this way. Regardless, he watched, breathless, as the kid moved back, as he shakily stepped down off the railing.

"O-okay. I… I'll try. Mom… maybe she'll listen, if I try. O-or I can make her listen. S-she has to care, right?" The boy asked, looking at Stanley with those beseeching eyes. Stanley could only shrug in return, unsure what he was expected to say. But the kid seemed content. He likely was still upset, still in pain. But he no longer wanted to die, and that was all Stanley could hope for, right?

He watched, motionless, as the kid moved away. Down the bridge, presumably back home. He hadn't even gotten more than five paces away, though, when he stopped, paused for a second, and turned back around, marching determinately towards Stanley. Before he could worry that the boy was planning on hurting him or anything, he felt arms wrap around his waist, a face pressing against his chest. It was a tight embrace, one he hadn't had in over seven years. Maybe even longer. He had no idea what to do with his hands, so he just pat the kid, lightly, unsure what else to do.

Soon, the kid pulled back, a watery smile on his face. Stanley could see that there was still pain in his eyes, pain that Stanley felt all too well, but then it might always be there. God knew it would be for him.

"Thank you, Stan. F-for helping." The boy said, before turning once more. Stanley watched him go, heart clenching, hoping the kid would be okay. It wasn't his business, he had done his duty in talking the kid down, but part of him did hope that things worked out. That the kid wouldn't just come right back out to this bridge in a week, a month; a year. That this whole thing hadn't just been a waste.

The kid had just passed the bridge's entrance when he paused once more, turning to face Stanley.

"Oh! And my name's Noah. Not 'kid.'" The kid- Noah- called back, miniscule smile still on his face. Stanley just nodded, and continued to watch as Noah went on his way. Back home, to a life he hadn't ever wanted to return to just minutes before.

 _At least he can return,_ that voice whispered in his ear. Stanley told it to kindly shut the hell up.

Lying back down, under the bridge, he stared at the water and thought. Life was hard. It sucked, and it hurt, and at times it felt like nothing would ever work out. But… there was good in it. And maybe… maybe he had a place here. Maybe he hadn't been lying. Maybe he'd find his place. Someday.

For now, he'd wade through the crap, wade through the hard times and the tribulations. He refused to ever be forced back onto a bridge, wondering if life would be better if he wasn't in it.

Because had he left, that day, way back when, Noah might not be here anymore. Noah might have jumped and ended his life. He… he had _saved_ him. With his words, comforting words, which had never been his strong suit. Give him a story, he'd embellish the hell out of it and make even the clearest lie sound truthful. But comfort? God, no. Yet he had helped that boy. With comfort.

And as he fell asleep, he couldn't help but think that that meant something.

That maybe he meant something.


End file.
